


The land of fallen dreams

by Ariana (Ariana_El)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-04 00:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13352907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariana_El/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: As he comes to Middle-Earth to face Morgoth in the final War, Finarfin wonders what has become of his nephews and family. Bit angsty, perhaps, but mostly just musings.





	The land of fallen dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I would say I am telling another story, but this time it was the story that told itself. I was merely writing.

**The land of fallen dreams**

 

Middle-Earth is nothing like the mysterious land he knows from old stories. It is full of grief and despair, weeping and bleeding, with the darkness hanging over once lively and beautiful lands. It is indeed dying and calling for help; the land, but also what remaines of its inhabitants: elves, people, animals. Even though Middle-Earth is no longer the land of stars and shares the light of Laurelin and Telperion, it seems to lack the light at all. The shores were beautiful and wild at first, but now, after a closer look, they  are miserable, with most of the villages abandoned or destroyed.

It is high time for the final encounter with the Enemy, for these lands and people would not be able to stand much more torment.

The shores are full of tents and soldiers, the bay is crowded with Teleri ships and Arafinwe is in the middle of this chaos. War.

And then they come; a group of riders. Their clothes are fine but worn, they faces grim and serious. Hardly any gems shine upon their brows and hair, yet their weapons are of excellent quality, a proof of craftsmanship. Elves and elleths ride arm in arm and a banner with single star flies above their heads. They stop and wait, firm and unperturbed. They neither ask for mercy nor would they show it. But they have come nevertheless.

Arafinwe watches them from afar, as Eonwe sends messengers to invite the sons of Feanor, but Nelyafinwe refuses to go deep into the camp. He trusts Maia not, nor do his elves. The group retreats and waits.

In the end they meet outside, away from the sight of Teleri. It is a wise decision, muses Arafinwe as he watches closely the two remaining sons of his brother. Who knows if some of the hot-blooded mariners would not decide to come on the shore after all and make the Noldor pay for their crimes in Alqualonde. Arafinwe is painfully aware that the relationships between Noldor and Teleri in Aman are still strain, though he has been working  to warm them a bit. As he watches the eldest son of Feanor, clad in full armour, he doubts Nelyafinwe remembers anything from court lessons he once had with king Finwe.

The sons of Feanor come to the meeting place with but a few elves; asmall party of Noldor and Sindar. This close, they look even more haggard and hunted, but the elder of the brothers is at ease and behaves as if they never left the court of Finwe. Yet in this tall and strong elf there is hardly anything left of Nelyafinwe Maitimo that Arafinwe remembers as his young nephew. He seems haunt and thin, but his fea burns brighter than anyone else’s around them. There is a fresh, barely healed cut on his face and for someone as skilled as Arafinwe it is easy to see old scars, no longer visible on the skin, but deeply engraved in fea. Nothing hides the fact that Nelyafinwe is missing a hand; the Vanyar stare at him and Arafinwe catches himself doing just the same.

Makalaure, on the other hand, seems watchful and careful, standing at his brother’s right and ostensibly keeping an eye on everyone. He keeps glancing left and he’s alert, but his eyes are dimmed with worries and his heart is full of grief.

It is a painful sight and Arafinwe  finds a bit of comfort only when he notices Alcarino among the warriors. He is glad to see an old family friend still alive, with this aura of authority and calmness, so different from the rest, that he has had even then,  back in Aman, when he would come to help his wife or sisters deliver their children. But most of all, Arafinwe remembers Alcarino visiting his father and bouncing him and his siblings on his knees. Once, before Arafinwe was born, he probably bounced Feanaro...

The thought is ridiculous and Arafinwe shakes it off with a small, private smile. He turns his gaze to the elleth standing close to the sons of Feanor. She is certainly not a Noldo, her silver hair and her uneasiness draw attention. She’s staring awe-struck at the Vanyar and Noldor of Valinor in all their glory. And she is young, so very young it seems improper if not obscene to bring such a young lady to war. Arafinwe knows better than to judge, though; he has seen her leaving her bow and knife along with the others, so she is clearly a part of those remains of an army the Feanorians have brought. Still, she has not lived many years and she looks small, but maybe it’s just because she is standing behind Maedhros, along with two... Arafinwe hesitates as he sees two dark-haired elven... boys? They seem children to him, hidden in the bodies of grown men and there is something different about them. There is certainly child-like curiosity in their eyes when they observe Eonwe and the elves from Valinor. They seem even younger than the elleth.

The reason Feanorians have come is plain and neither of the brothers is trying to hide it. They want to partake in the war; it has been theirs for the past five centuries and they are not going to stand aside, now that they have means to actually achieve something. They wish to partake and they have right to do so, but they also have arguments no one can really argue with. They understand there is mistrust and wariness, says Nelyafinwe, but they are the ones who have fought Moringotto and so they know what to expect of him. Also, they do not wish to lead the army, but they offer to be scouts and guides for those who set their feet in Middle-Earth for the first time.

At this point Arafinwe takes back what he has thought about Nelyafinwe – even after so many centuries he’s not in the least intimidated by the presence of a Maia or Noldor king and Vanyar prince, and he plays his cards well.

Eonwe is not a fool and he accepts the offer upon seeing that the sons of Earendil – those two strange younglings that intrigued Arafinwe so much – were not harmed by the sons of Feanor and they seem rather fond of Makalaure. And so the two sons of his half brother are to be their guides in this strange, dangerous world, muses Arafinwe as they come to an agreement. He will be seeing a lot of them in the nearest future, but for now they are just being settled into the camp. There shall be no conflicts, Arafinwe will see to that.

xxx

It is Makalaure – Maglor, as he has said – who seeks him out late in the night. He comes alone when Arafinwe is finally finished with his duties and considers getting some rest. Alone, without Nelyafinwe – Maedhros – at his side and those young sons of Earendil, he seems even more dim and faded. He’s lost in thoughts as he walks and at first Arafinwe thinks he is just wandering around, possibly trying to estimate the size of their armies. But Maglor stops by his tent and waits until Arafinwe joins him outside.

For a long time they just stand together and watch the stars. The night is cold, but the sky is cloudless and it glimmers with thousands of tiny diamonds, among which Earendil’s Silmaril shines the brightest.

“So, the Silmaril has truly brought hope to Middle-Earth.” Maglor offers after a while. “It would have made a nice song, once.”

But not anymore. Arafinwe sees that despite all the wrongs his nephews have done, he cannot help but pity the songless bard, the harpless musician who wields a sword and breathes curses, not notes. Arafinwe hesitates, but decides against trying to use osanwe; they are almost strangers now. There are too many things he dreads to know, but there is one matter that would not let him be.

“Do you know anything about Artanis?” he asks.

Maglor just shakes his head, still gazing at the stars.

Then he starts talking. He speaks softly about his fallen cousins and friends, about the evil Arafinwe cannot even imagine. Those are not the words of a bard, but a war commander. No beauty is left in this tale, no glorious story or song made by the mightiest singer among Noldor. Just truth.

Maglor stops abruptly and looks at Arafinwe as if he has just woken from a deep nightmare. He shakes his head and retreats without a word.

Arafinwe is left alone.

He has come here to see this land and to help free it from the evil that destroyed most of his family. But as a father, he has also hoped that his only daughter would be somewhere among survivors, as no news about her death have reached Valinor. Now, he can only hope she has run far away with her husband, for the upcoming war is going to tear this world apart, regardless of the outcome. Fighting in hope of freeing this land is all Arafinwe is left with. And this is good enough reason for the High King of Noldor to go to war.

 

 


End file.
